I’m sick

of the blood,

the bodies,

and the I-told-you-so grins

curling on the faces of these

blank-eyed cynics,


who have the giant


to paint“hypocrite”

in red letters

on MY front door

because the mangled body

I’m crying over

is wearing a tank top.


And somehow

the pointed fingers

land on me,

like I’m the one who

slammed my palms over the detonator

so I could dance on the graves

dug in the bloody sand across the sea

just because those mangled bodies

happened to wear



I cried for them, too,

you bastards.


And you shout

a million fucking times

that war is not the answer.




But unless the next words

that dribble out your mouth

are a plan,

do us all a favor

and keep it shut.


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